


Muse

by gemjam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chris Argent Appreciation Week, Established Relationship, M/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: But his favourite subject, from the very first click of his shutter, has always been Stiles.-For Day 3 of Chris Argent Appreciation Week -smut





	Muse

**Author's Note:**

> [Cover art on tumblr.](http://gemjam.tumblr.com/post/176984739111/muse-chris-argentstiles-stilinski-explicit)

Stiles bought him the camera as a birthday present.

“You should probably get used to shooting with something other than a gun.”

Chris had “retired” a couple of months previously, which led to Stiles make countless old man jokes, but he didn’t want to be the one who people called when bad shit was going down anymore. He wanted to be free of his family’s stigma, to close that chapter of his life once and for all. And so he retired and Stiles bought him a camera.

It was an old model, second-hand, but it was perfect for a beginner. He would go on long hikes, capturing everything that he saw, sorting through the photographs on his computer when he got home.

It’s not long before he upgrades to something more expensive, film rather than digital, because he wants the whole process. He wants to truly create. He learns how to develop his own photographs and then he converts his study into a dark room, using it to breathe life into things for a change rather than plotting death. Even following the code, his life was always more about ends than beginnings.

He loves to spend days roaming the preserve for perfect shots, loves to go on road trips with Stiles to find new vistas, loves the mundanities of coffee cups close together somehow conveying intimacy. He has a good eye. But his favourite subject, from the very first click of his shutter, has always been Stiles.

He used to goof it up whenever Chris turned the camera on him, grinning or pulling stupid poses, but Chris could tell it was just self-consciousness. He wasn’t comfortable being earnest. That’s maybe the truest thing about him.

Chris started to take photographs when he wasn’t looking, candids of him studying or playing a video game or telling a story to his friends. He showed them to Stiles later, pointed out everything about them that he loved, and Stiles would always let himself be genuine in front of the camera after that, would never shy away when Chris pointed the lens at him.

He finds Stiles in the bedroom now, sat on the bed reading a book for one of his college classes. There’s black and white film in the camera in Chris’ hands. It’s one of his favourite ways to capture Stiles, everything stripped away, making him all the more striking.

Stiles has one hand on his chin in concentration as he frowns at the book, but he puts it down beside him on the bed as he sees Chris enter, slouching down without a word as he easily parts his legs. He smiles to himself as he looks across the room to the clock, the half-hidden grin not for Chris’ benefit, but that just makes it all the more beautiful. His shirt has ridden up, showing the tempting hint of flesh, the perfect first shot for what he has planned. Joy. A tease. A gentle undressing.

Stiles drops his hand, looking first at Chris and then down his camera lens, giving a soft smile, a promise in his eyes. Chris snaps a photograph.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, eye still to the viewfinder.

Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes like he once would have done. Instead he goes lax, preening without being in the least bit conceited, and Chris clicks the shutter button to capture it forever.

He settles himself between Stiles’ open legs, trying to translate the intimacy of the moment into a snapshot. He places his hand on the inside of Stiles’ thigh, out of shot, snapping a photograph of the way his eyes go darker with want. Stiles pushes his shirt back off his shoulders without being asked, Chris documenting it, wanting to catch the blur of movement, the lively part of Stiles that can’t be contained. He tosses it playfully aside and then raises his eyebrows as he grabs the collar of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head.

Chris leans back to get a shot of his torso, the way his back arches as he tugs his shirt free, that patch of hair beneath his navel that disappears enticingly into his jeans. Stiles gives him a winning smile as he shifts himself further down the bed so he’s laid against the pillows.

“Are you planning on joining me at any point?” he asks.

“Yes,” Chris says, snapping another photograph for good measure. He lowers the camera, placing it beside Stiles’ book on the bed.

“There you are,” Stiles says, holding his arms out towards him.

Chris goes to him easily, laying his body down on top of Stiles’, joining their mouths together. The kiss is slow and lazy and laced with intimacy. Stiles’ hands slide inside Chris’ clothes, over his back, drawing him closer. He tilts his head with a little moan, Chris licking his way deeper inside, tasting coffee and chocolate.

Chris rolls his hips, Stiles making a noise in his throat as he lifts his feet from the bed, wrapping his legs around Chris’ back. He pulls their bodies flush together and Chris can feel all the blood in his body go south far faster than it should for a man his age. He groans into Stiles’ mouth, grinding against him, feeling Stiles’ cock against his own. Sometimes he forgets how to want anything but this.

Stiles pulls back, breathless, his hand closed into a fist around the fabric of Chris’ shirt. “You need to take this off.”

“Okay,” Chris agrees.

Stiles lets his legs fall away so that he can sit up, Chris grabbing his camera on the way. He takes a close-up of Stiles’ parted, kiss-swollen lips, damp with saliva. Perfection.

He places the camera aside, pulling his shirt off, Stiles reaching out for him and trailing his hands down Chris’ front, fingertips catching in his hair. He tugs him back in for a kiss, nowhere near as involved as the last one, his impatience starting to show. He moans, a noise of almost-frustration, and Chris pulls back, retrieving his camera.

“Wait,” he says as Stiles goes for the front of his pants.

Stiles stills as Chris shifts back, getting down on his stomach between Stiles’ legs. He takes a couple of pictures of his hard cock straining beneath his jeans, making the denim bulge. It shows nothing but it’s ridiculously sexual, verging on obscene.

“Okay,” he says, moving to get a different angle as he photographs Stiles pulling down his zipper, pushing at the waistband of his jeans, hips lifted from the bed. He stops before Stiles’ hard cock springs free, preferring his shots to be a little less explicit than that. It’s erotica, it’s not pornography.

“You,” Stiles says as he kicks his jeans and underwear off onto the floor, so comfortable in his nakedness.

Chris complies, camera put aside to strip himself completely. Stiles puts a hand around his own cock, stroking himself lazily as he watches, eyes dark but so attentive, always taking notes. Nothing ever gets past him. Chris loves how clever and cunning he is.

He gets back down on his stomach between Stiles’ legs, smiling up at him. Stiles gets the hint, pulling his hand away, and Chris leans forward, closing his mouth around the head of Stiles’ cock, sucking in the taste of his precome. Stiles’ mouth falls open but nothing comes out but a sigh, eyes locked on Chris’. It feels so pure without a viewfinder between them. The camera can only catch so much.

He slides his lips down, taking him deeper a little at a time, his tongue following the vein on the underside, making Stiles squirm and make the most delicious noise. His eyelids start to flutter, lashes falling against flushed cheeks, making Chris suck harder, making him want to give Stiles everything.

Stiles moans, head falling back, and Chris suckles at the tip of his cock as he reaches for his camera, lifting it up. He has to capture it. He has to lock it away forever. He doesn’t allow himself doubts because he’s already so lucky and he doesn’t want to miss a second of it, but he still wants this immortalised. He’ll never quite silence that tiny voice that says _just in case._

He snaps a photograph of Stiles, head thrown back, eyes closed, panting. Then he slides his mouth down, taking him in deep, and he snaps his camera as Stiles moans, eyes going wide, pure, overwhelmed abandonment. Chris did that. He’ll preen about it later.

Right now, he reaches upwards with his free hand, touching Stiles’ cheek and snapping one more photograph. _Mine._

“Yeah, alright, hotshot, you wanna concentrate?” Stiles asks, which would sound a lot more authoritative if his words weren’t coming out in a breathy slur.

Chris smiles around his cock, pulling back to wrap his lips tightly around the head, sucking hard while he tongues at the slit. He feels the shudder that goes through Stiles along with the flood of precome on his tongue.

He does put the camera aside though, gives his undivided attention to Stiles. He slides his lips back down, swallowing around him, Stiles moaning as he threads his fingers through Chris’ hair. Chris sets up a rhythm, lips and tongue working together, not happy until Stiles’ hips are lifting irresistibly off the bed, rocking into his mouth. Chris can feel him try to hold himself back but he grips his hip, encouraging the movement, wanting to feel Stiles lose himself to it.

He feels the surrender in his whole body when it happens, in the hand that tightens in his hair, in the hips that move with purpose, in the strain of his body as he whines. Chris moves with him, meets him halfway, hollowing his cheeks as Stiles pushes upwards one last time, coming over Chris’ tongue, salty and bitter and addictive.

Chris swallows and swallows, never letting Stiles’ cock fall from his mouth, not letting a drop of come escape. Stiles’ body shudders beneath him, rocked by aftershocks, a beautiful little mewl escaping his lips. Chris lets him go, pulling his mouth carefully off, Stiles’ hand falling from his hair and stroking his cheek, looking at him with bleary eyes. Chris stays there, letting Stiles ground himself, but when the hand slips away, he sits up, looking down at Stiles.

His body is limp, damp with sweat, flushed a healthy pink. Everything is relaxed and uninhibited, eyes soft and lips bitten. It’s almost perfect. Almost.

Chris wraps his hand around his own cock, moving closer on his knees, sitting between Stiles’ spread thighs. Stiles moans, makes an aborted little motion to help, but he lets his heavy arm fall back down onto the bed. He gets it. He can give back with his surrender. Chris has never found better inspiration for getting off.

He doesn’t tease himself, doesn’t draw it out. When he’s close, he kneels up, placing his free hand on the bed so that he’s leaning over Stiles’ body. Stiles slides his hand back into Chris’ hair, pulls him down for a kiss, and Chris comes like that, Stiles giving him lazy, open-mouthed kisses, fingertips tickling the nape of his neck.

He presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes as he catches his breath.

“I would have let you put it in me,” Stiles says, a teasing note in his voice.

Chris opens his eyes, lifting his head. “Well, it’s a bit late now, we both know I need a five hour refractory period.”

Stiles snorts a laugh. “Alright, old man.”

He trails his hand down Chris’ back, grabbing his ass. Chris smiles, leaning in a claim a kiss before he sits back, grabbing his camera. Stiles groans but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t try to cover himself. He lies there as relaxed and open as ever, letting his hand fall down onto the bed as Chris starts to take photographs.

He moves around to frame Stiles’ come-splattered stomach in different ways, the milky droplets against his flesh, the way they’ve caught in his trail of hair, the way they surround a mole on his hip. It’s all close-ups and artistic angles, there’s no full nude shots. Stiles has never asked him not to, has never been ashamed or done anything but trust him, but Chris doesn’t want to risk cheapening it. The photographs are about intimacy, not sex, though he knows the two are helplessly twined together.

He takes a photograph of Stiles’ profile, closed eyes and parted lips. He takes a photograph of the curve of his neck and the sweat shining on his collarbone. He leans over, lining up the camera lens down Stiles’ arm, taking a photograph of his hand, fingers curled upwards against rumpled sheets. It says everything Chris wants it to say.

“Are you done?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Chris says, straightening up. “I’m done.”

He leans across Stiles, putting his camera down on the nightstand out of his reach as he settles on the other side of him. He puts his head on Stiles’ chest, lifting the sheets to wipe the come from his stomach.

“Thanks,” Stiles murmurs. “I’m going to take a nap. You can wake me up in five hours. With your cock.”

Chris looks up at him, watching as he strains to keep a straight face. He nips him in the side, watching as Stiles dissolves into giggles. It’s a beautiful sight. As he calms he wraps his arm around Chris with a sigh, closing his eyes.

“I can’t wait to see those photos,” he says.

Chris smiles, placing a kiss against his skin. He feels like the photographs expose him more than they do Stiles, all of his adoration, everything he has to lose. Sharing them is like giving away a little part of his soul, but he never gets bored of showing Stiles just how precious he is.


End file.
